A Bride Fit for a Hound
by ladywolf19
Summary: Sandor has a strange thought and it quickly starts to obsess him. He comes to Sansa on the night of the Battle of Blackwater and offers to take her away from King's Landing with hidden intentions. (AU-book events)
1. Sansa Clegane

Author's Note: Inspired by Jaime Lannister's quote from the book (I know that it's about Arya, but still): '..._if the gods are good, she'll forget she was ever a Stark. She'll wed some burly blacksmith or fat-faced innkeep, fill his house with children, and never need to fear that some knight might come along to smash their heads against a wall.'_

I'll give you fair warning that I've shifted time and events around a bit. Sansa has flowered already, but Joffrey is delaying to marry her and she's fourteen. The Battle of Blackwater should come in about a month. Sandor's doing things that he doesn't do in the book so basically it's an alternate universe, I guess.

I tried to keep Sandor and Sansa in character, but if they aren't then please forgive me.

Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me :p

* * *

"My lord?"

Sandor Clegane's eyes snapped open and he shifted on the stone bench that he had been sitting on.

It was the middle of the day and the sun beat hard upon his brow.

A long time ago, he might have sharply corrected the girl for saying 'lord' to him, but this was _Sansa _and he knew that she didn't know what else to call him by. The consequences of 'Ser' had been demonstrated already, just 'Clegane' was much too bold and haughty, he had seen her visibly wince at times when his superiors called him 'Hound' or 'Dog' although he couldn't very well fathom why and a simple 'Sandor' was so informal that she would never even consider it. So, it was 'my lord' most days or 'my noble lord' when she was feeling especially thankful. Sandor didn't mind it very much anymore, even if the 'noble' part of it was no welcome compliment and he wanted to remind her of it sometimes, in case she forgot.

He had become accustomed to her ways somehow.

He scrutinized the little creature beside him that had piped up just as he had been successfully taking a bloody, well-deserved rest for the first time that bloody day.

"What is it, girl?"

She might have squeaked, the way she was eyeing him like a mouse being stared down by a cat.

Mayhaps, he had answered a bit too harshly.

He made an effort to soften his features for her. These days he had developed an insight into how much his demeanor affected her. What he thought would be a passable response in any other situation was never quite acceptable in front of the little bird. He had learned that he had to refine his manners around the girl or risk frightening her off. Sandor did not always succeed, he wasn't in the habit of being particularly gentle, but damn him if he didn't try.

"I…I have seen…I have noticed…"

She had lowered her gaze from his face again and it annoyed him.

"Speak up," he urged, not unkindly.

She seemed to regain her nerve.

"I have noticed that there is a tear in your shirt."

He frowned at that and looked down at his tunic.

Usually, he would have much preferred to be covered in his favorite armor, but he was only chaperoning a _'lady' _at the moment and there was no need for it.

Sandor could see that she was right and that there had indeed been a long rip near the bottom. It only surprised him a little.

Most of his clothes, even his best ones, weren't in the finest of conditions.

It was something that he accepted; he didn't really give a rat's ass either way.

"And?"

She was shy again and he felt like sighing.

"_And?" _

The girl spoke very quickly now.

"_IwaswonderingifIcouldmenditforyou?" _

He shook his head and growled.

"If you could chirp a little more slowly, little bird, then maybe you could also expect me to understand a blasted word you're saying."

She took a deep breath.

"I was wondering if I could mend it for you…maybe…my lord?"

Sandor blinked for a second and then burst out laughing. _Sansa Stark_ was asking for permission to mend his clothes. If someone had told him that this would have happened a year ago, he would have marked them for a bloody fool and sent them on their merry way.

For once, he felt thankful towards the good-for-nothing princeling that he served. After all, without the 'Joffers' this priceless situation wouldn't have been possible.

His normal, day-to-day duties in King's Landing included finishing tourneys without snapping anyone's neck accidentally or not-so-accidentally, protecting Joffrey from people who had more than good enough reason to want to stab him in the back, escorting Joffrey wherever the buggering hell he wanted to go and killing whichever poor bastards Joffrey wanted dead. As Joffrey generally needed him for most of whatever he was doing, this left very little time for anything else.

Or rather, very little time for checking up on his little bird, which he very much liked to do.

This was why he had been more than obedient when Joffrey had added something else to his list of duties.

'Minding Joffrey's Bride'.

Sansa seemed to like to spend her time being outside or in the Godswood. Or more specifically, she liked to be away from everyone else in the Red Keep. Sandor didn't blame her for it, seeing as most of the people there either disliked her intensely or meant her serious harm. However, Cersei didn't like this too much as this isolation left her son's bride vulnerable to an attack on her maidenhood and it was unthinkable that the future Queen might come to the marriage already deflowered.

The Joffers figured that it would be a good idea to appease his mother by sending his 'Dog' to guard her. It wasn't lost on Sandor that the 'King' also took a perverse kind of pleasure on thinking of Sansa's discomfort in his company. So, the little bird was not allowed to flutter about by herself without Sandor and he was not allowed to leave her unless expressly wished upon by Joffrey.

He had already roughed up his share of men earlier in the day and she had waited patiently for him to finish so that he could take her outside.

So, now he was enjoying his favorite activity: 'Watching Sansa'.

She began to thread her needle once more through her half-finished, flower-embroidered handkerchief, looking up at him every once in a while, and he was brought back to the present question that she had posed.

"You want to mend my shirt, girl?" he asked, just to be sure that she was serious because he couldn't quite believe it himself.

She licked her lips then pressed them together and he saw how they glistened in the sunlight. Sandor had spent enough time with her and was observant enough of a man to know that it was one of her nervous habits.

"If...if it would please you, my lord."

What the hell did she have to be nervous about? He was an intimidating man, to be sure, and he had a nasty temper at times, but he wasn't about to bite off her hand for offering to do him a service.

"It pleases me," he rasped and she gave him a small smile.

He turned away from her abruptly and grunted, pulling the cloth over his head. Those little smiles of hers seemed to be given rarely and every time she presented one to him, he didn't like being shaken by the equally rare emotion they inspired in him.

When he was bare-chested, he tossed the tunic to her.

Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were wide. She began to stutter while looking at anything but him.

"_My_-my lord, this is hardly proper!" she objected. "I...I..._command _you to put your attire back on."

Sandor enjoyed the new, high tone that her voice had taken. It took quite a lot from him to get her to act this way - all dignified and _imperious_.

"Seven hells, girl, _you're_ the one who wanted to mend my shirt. I've only given it to you," he remarked dryly. "You should think about your damned propriety before you start making suggestions like that."

"Yes, but I meant _later_," Sansa insisted, looking very flustered now. "Preferably when you had on _other _clothes."

Her next question was more desperate and it amused him to see that she was whispering now.

"What would someone think if they _saw_ you?"

He made a big, dramatic show of looking around for the phantom figure that she was lowering her voice for.

"As far as I can tell, my lady," he mocked, equally as quiet. "There is nobody _here." _

She scrunched up her nose at him in annoyance and turned away in a huff, determinedly avoiding the sight of his naked torso.

Sandor closed his eyes again, crossed his arms and felt the sun on his skin.

_You've done it now, old dog,_ Sandor told himself, _the little bird is offended and now your shirt will never get mended. _

Indeed, what _if _someone came upon them?

Well, anyone else would get told off for improper behavior, but who dared to scold the Hound?

They might earn a stare or two, but Sandor was used to those and he wasn't afraid of them. Besides, everyone knew that Sandor was Sansa's special escort. It had been a few months since that had been made known already.

Joffrey would have his head on a spike if he actually dared to do anything that was _truly_ 'inappropriate' with her.

Not that he wasn't tempted to. Gods knew, he was _tempted. _

She was only fourteen and she made his knees weak.

Sandor was an honest man.

She was pretty and no one could deny it, at least not within his hearing range or else they would be getting a well-deserved, broken nose.

However, she wasn't the prettiest.

He had seen more beautiful women, it was true, but none of them had ever made the infamous Hound _ache _with his entire body, just to be near.

He had only been blessed with the chance to touch her hand half-a-dozen times and he always marveled at how fingers could be so dainty.

She was _so_ soft. It felt like he would bruise her with a touch.

How many times had he checked himself from following his impulse to suckle at her exposed, pale neck and leave a mark there like the beast he was?

It would mean death for him.

Yet if his head was chopped off for daring touch her, it would be the sweetest death he could have imagined for himself.

Most likely, he would either breath his last with a dirty sword in his gut and a curse-word on his lips, slowly bleeding out, or as a worn-out, sick dog with no one who cared enough to watch over him in his old age.

Yes, he would prefer to be executed for the little bird. That was much better.

Tiring of his thoughts, he cracked open one eyelid and peeked over her shoulder. Sansa had secretly put the handkerchief aside and was concentrating on his shirt. His mouth gradually twitched into a grin. There was a strange feeling of satisfaction in the sight.

She started to hum her usual tune and he remembered that she had been humming before she had started to talk to him.

He resolved not to disturb her now; he liked listening to her.

Sandor also liked to see her work. She genuinely seemed to enjoy needlework and she had a talent for it. He had seen his mother sew as a child and a few other ladies before, but Sansa did it so gracefully that it looked like her hands were performing some elegant dance.

Her eyes had an odd, faraway look to them and he could see that she was day-dreaming again. It was her favorite past-time, it seemed. He caught her doing this so often that it shocked him sometimes. Even when she was supping at the King's table and she was surrounded by people who not-so-subtly threw insults at her or her family, only Sandor knew that she was off in her head somewhere else. It was a very important sort of escape, he had realized.

If she was stuck in reality all the time then someday maybe something in the little bird would break that not Sandor or anyone else could fix again.

The thought chilled him to the bone.

Sansa Stark had been deceived and borne pain that she shouldn't have had to bear.

She was very different from the child that she had been before coming to King's Landing. Sandor had seen the changes develop personally.

There was a calmer air about her, she chose her words more carefully and her smile didn't come as easily as it once had. She had learned to play-act that she was peaceful and content in situations that were extremely distressing to her. Sandor suspected that this was because she could actually convince herself that she wasn't physically there. Her imagination was almost disturbingly powerful.

It was a very good thing that her eyes had been opened to the realities of the world and that she knew to be cautious with who she trusted, but Sansa couldn't lose those dreams.

Once he might have scoffed at her for them, but he understood better now.

Not everyone had a core made out of iron to withstand mighty storms.

Little birds dreamed to keep their sanity and put despair at bay.

It was a strength that served her well and he would not have anyone take it from her.

Sandor leaned back and she continued her melody happily.

Whatever _unhappiness _Joff had tried to give Sansa by sending him to her side, it clearly wasn't working. The king couldn't have known that Sandor Clegane and Sansa Stark would develop a sort of halfway-comfortable relationship together.

_And, we are comfortable, aren't we, little bird?_ Sandor thought to himself a little proudly. _When I'm not busy snapping at your feathers, that is. _

He had smelled her fear, seen her stain her sheets with blood for the first time, listened to her sob until her face was red, felt her tremble in his arms as he carried her away from danger and stopped her from getting herself executed by Joffrey with some sound advice far too many times to count.

After all of that, it would be almost unnatural not to be clos-_er_, he decided.

He wasn't fooling himself though; he was well-aware that there were times when she was still scared of him.

Although, that was mostly when he was drunk out of his mind and she was wise to get away from him when that happened.

Very wise, indeed.

"Little bird?"

The music stopped and he cursed himself.

"Yes?"

"We've been through a hell of a lot together, haven't we?"

She was so surprised that she forgot that she wasn't supposed to be looking at him.

"Well...I suppose we have."

Sansa looked at the ground for a while, transported in thought, and Sandor wanted to know what was swirling around her head.

Suddenly, there was a peal of laughter.

"Think that's funny then, do you?"

She shook her head vigorously, still smiling.

"No, my lord. I was just thinking...it's been such a very, long time since I first saw you and now we sit like this everyday. You have become such a large part of my life. I would have never imagined - "

She broke off, suddenly impossibly sad, and he could see what she had been trying to say.

_I would have never imagined any of this happening back then. _

The little bird was thinking back on all of the other things that had happened.

Ned Stark's beheading, her wolf-sister's escape, Joffrey, her beloved, threatening to kill her with a crossbow, getting beaten up by a knight afterwards, almost being raped, almost murdering said 'beloved'...

Sandor didn't imagine they were very pleasant memories.

"Put the past away, girl," he advised. "It brings no good to dwell on it."

She nodded and ran a hand over his tunic on her lap.

"I'm finished," she reported, appearing satisfied with herself. "It looks much better now."

"Aye," he agreed softly. "You've done well, little bird."

Sansa handed it to him shyly and he touched the cloth's pretty stitches, knowing that her fingers had once been there.

It was an odd scene.

A highborn lady presenting her lowborn guard with his sewn-up shirt.

Very odd.

He allowed himself to linger on the thought.

They were sitting quite closely together, he was shirtless and she had just mended his clothing.

In another instance, they would have looked very much like...a husband and wife.

Wasn't that what Sansa was doing for him, what wives did for their husbands?

The idea fascinated him a little too much and he felt the danger of that, but he couldn't resist.

Sansa Clegane, his little wife.

_What twisted ideas are you thinking on, you mad dog? _

"Ah, my lord?"

Fancying that she had somehow heard his thoughts, he almost jumped off of the bench. He turned, his heart still racing.

"You may clothe yourself now."

He wanted to laugh. Her mouth was pursed and he could see that she wasn't going to accept a refusal quietly.

When Sansa wanted something, she didn't stop reminding him until it was done.

"Alright, alright," he soothed. "Don't get your feathers in a ruffle. I'll get decent again."

She was much appeased when he wasn't half-naked anymore and he stood up to escort her back to her cage, as he had been tasked to do.

The thought followed him though.

_Sansa Clegane._


	2. Escape

Sandor felt increasingly and uncomfortably disturbed.

Two weeks had passed since one, sunny afternoon and an avalanche of consequences had followed, leaving him overwhelmed and irritated in it's wake.

The change had begun with the smallest of ripples. Harmless, really.

Sandor Clegane spent an estimated six hours with Sansa Stark every day.

Within this time, they had fallen into the habit of keeping a comfortable silence in each other's company, only ever breaking it in rare, precious instances. There was an invisible line of sorts between the pair and what was 'appropriate behavior', even if Sandor didn't put too much value in those words.

Sansa didn't like to push those boundaries and he knew it.

Although she did not seem to dislike him very much, she also wasn't about to start chatting for hours on end with her strange, moody guardsman.

Of course, even silence was a sort of exchange. He would observe her while they walked from place to place, her eyes would dart to his once or twice and then she would be thinking again, not noticing that he was there.

Before, when Joffrey had treated her in the decent way that boys could be expected to treat their betrothed, she had liked to twitter with the other ladies of the court once in a while. Naturally, they all kept their distance from her now and that wasn't an option anymore.

When faced with either Sandor or nobody at all, she seemed to prefer the latter.

It wasn't anything he wasn't used to. He had been quiet for most of his life.

Who wanted to _talk _to a Clegane anyways?

Actions came to him more easily than words and he didn't see much use in idly blabbering so that was fine with him.

At least, that _had _been fine with him.

All of a sudden, he wanted more than what she was willing to give him. All of a sudden, he _wanted _the little bird to chirp to him.

It was an strange wish that nagged at the back of his mind and irritated him to no end.

Sandor did not particularly like to make a fool of himself. Even dogs had their own sense of pride.

He had no topic of interest to bait her with and no inclination to make it perfectly, pathetically clear how desperately he longed for her full, undivided attention.

He had to settle for letting his eyes wander from the little pulse in the vein of her delicate wrist to the design of a flower on the bodice of her dress as it shifted with her steady breaths.

How could she be so calm, he wondered to himself many times over. How could she be so calm when he was always, _always_ boiling up inside?

It was too easy for her to dismiss his presence.

He would fall at her feet and roll over just to have her acknowledge him.

She could recite her old prayers, embroider her pretty designs, read her thrice damned books and forget that he even existed, ready to kill and be killed to defend her.

And, what could Sandor do?

He could not ignore her.

Bugger the seven hells, he just couldn't.

He couldn't pretend that she was far away when she was near him.

Even if he could have used all of the willpower he had ever possessed, he could not turn away from her when she looked at him with those wide, blue eyes.

To the last of his days, he doubted that he would ever forget the girl that he had once called his little bird.

Even if she somehow managed to escape the arranged marriage that bound her to Joffrey, she would wed another wealthy noble and fly away from his sight.

How was that fair?

It wasn't; the gods that she revered had no pity for him.

They either didn't exist or despised him so thoroughly that they wanted him to suffer even unto his dying breath.

If it wasn't enough that he was mocked and tormented during the waking hours, images and sounds slipped into his slumber unbidden.

They were visions of the cruelest sort. Visions of things that he could never have.

The peace of mornings with a head sweetly resting against his chest, the heat of nights where he could claim her over and over again.

Home-cooked supper, a warm hearth, pink-faced babes and laughter.

When had he last dreamt of something other than ash, destruction and flaming swords?

He thought of his life as he kneeled before Joffrey Baratheon one day and he didn't _like_ it.

Everything was so unbelievably empty.

When he thought of Sansa Stark, he tasted life and realized what a hollow shell he had become.

Sandor had long ago trained himself not to care - about anything, in fact.

Not to care about beauty, not to care about honor, not to care about love.

Sandor Clegane was a _survivor _and a damned good one too. The things that other people needed were irrelevant to him.

The world did not hold any lasting beauty or honor or love so why the hell should he strive to gain them?

Age withered youth and all rainbows faded.

Knights went back on their promises as soon as the wind changed direction.

Wives secretly cheated on their husbands, mothers hated ugly children and brothers burned each other.

Food, clothes, plenty of wine and a roof over his head - that was all he required.

For some decent pay, he obeyed when he needed to obey, injured when he needed to injure and slaughtered when he had to slaughter.

He went about his work just as he had for the last ten years, but something was very _wrong_ and he hated that he could admit to himself that he knew it now.

And, it had all started with that one, damning thought.

_Sansa Clegane._

It was all her fault.

He was almost angry with the girl for it.

How _dare_ she shake him up and make him question his own purpose?

Sandor had been fine before her.

Now, nothing would ever be just 'fine' again. The damage was done.

For the first time, he dared to want more.

Sandor wanted his little bird.

* * *

When news came that Stannis' fleet was coming towards the city, Sandor wasn't surprised.

He had a gut-feeling about such things and his gut had been telling him that something bad was headed their way.

The universe could not leave King's Landing undisturbed for such a long time - not with Joffrey as King.

He dressed for battle and strapped his favorite sword to his side. Sandor was ready to defend the Keep - not because he had any special love for it nor for the boy he served, but because it was what he had been doing for many years and he didn't see any reason not to do so now. Outright refusal to lead the soldiers would result in an immediate death sentence.

That was, if the Lannisters _won._ After all, if they didn't, it wouldn't really matter in the end.

Most of those powerful highborns would be at the mercy of their enemies, including the little bird.

_Especially_, his little bird.

This was why he could not let the city fall. He had to fight.

So, he went out to meet their seafaring foes.

He gutted their livers, bashed their skulls and shouted at his men to do the same. It wasn't anything he hadn't seen before.

Until the fire.

_Seven gods above_, the emerald wildfire.

The burning was everywhere - the smell overtaking his nose, the sight blinding his eyes. His eyes stung as he saw men screaming their lungs off as their skin melted off. He was vaguely aware that the buggering Imp was urging him to keep going forward.

Something deep inside of him snapped and he knew that he wasn't going to put up with any of it anymore.

Fuck everything, he said and he left - just like that.

He found a bottle of wine inside of the castle and took a few, long swigs.

All the while, there was a mantra on repeat, in line with the throbbing in his head.

_Sansa, Sansa, Sansa. _

What to do, now that he had deserted and he knew that he had to leave?

He would have to abandon her, leave her to the lions or whatever creature came to sweep her up and take her in that mad chaos of a world that she was stuck in.

She was just a pawn in their sick, political games. She kept her life only because she was worth something, because she had a title.

They didn't care that she smiled when she stopped to smell flowers in the gardens, that she hated to drink wine, but she loved lemoncakes, that her nose wrinkled adorably when she was annoyed or that she sometimes forgot to be a lady in the early morning when someone tried to get her out of bed - he often heard the protests from outside her door.

A thousand people could tell him that she was a Stark or that she had wolf-blood in her veins and that she had been born to be a princess and then a queen, but he would tell them that they had certainly never met the girl in person.

Queens were cold and calculating. They manipulated their closest relations, beheaded their enemies and navigated through court intrigues as well as scandals with ease.

It was all a game, really.

A game of power, lies and backstabbing.

Sansa had been brought up with 'the Game' and she understood it to some extent.

But - and this was what really made the grand difference and made him marvel - she didn't _play._

Her father had played, her mother played, her brothers played and even her little, she-wolf sister played.

_Every _noble played.

Sansa didn't.

Sure, she made her courtesies to dangerous people so that they would like her a little better, but that wasn't '_playing'_. That was smart thinking and good sense.

She had considered trying to murder Joffrey once, but that wasn't part of a elaborate power-play that she had cooked up. It was because she was angry about her father and she had been very pale for hours afterwards, probably regretting that she had ever had the idea.

She didn't create secret alliances, she didn't have vicious ambition and she didn't have questionable motives for every, little thing she did.

Sansa simply _was. _There wasn't any special reason for it.

And, this was why she would continue to be used by her family, her foes and everyone around her for the rest of her life.

Because she didn't want to play and she wouldn't.

Sandor sighed and threw his bottle against a wall, shattering it.

And, what did the little bird want anyways?

To bring the Stark name honor and glory?

Sandor snorted loudly.

It was a nice thought, but not really. At most, she probably wanted safety for her family - whatever was left of her kin, that was.

To be Queen of Winterfell?

Maybe, she still did - although if this was true then she was much more naive than he had ever thought.

Surely by now, she had realized what the life of a queen really was and that it was something that she shouldn't want?

Power did not hold much interest for the little bird - that much was clear.

The Lady of some Keep?

The thought of that made him grind his teeth.

At first, she would blush and humbly obey her family's wishes in regards to her suitor.

A dull-witted ninny that preferred the company of his hunting dogs to her sweet presence.

She would cry, probably, as she realized that the lord, her kin had promised her to, did not care for her at all and kept several mistresses at his beck and call.

Her lofty ideas of love would vanish entirely.

When she wrote to her mother of her unhappiness, she would slowly discover that nobody meant to do anything about it, that they had even expected it and that it was a sacrifice that they meant for her to bear for the Stark name.

_What a load of horse-piss._

She was so much more than a 'Stark' princess.

When you simplified it and really got to the core of the matter, what did _Sansa _want?

What was in those songs that she was always humming to?

A fair maiden, a lordly knight and a romantic, blissful union.

It struck him like a lightning bolt. It was almost too simple.

She wanted a loving husband who would lavish her with attention, was loyal to her above all else and would never dream of bedding a whore.

She would want a small garden behind a pretty house where she could grow her flowers and sit to read her books.

She would want children too, no doubt about it.

It didn't pass his notice how her eyes sparkled when she saw the infant of a certain lady go scampering down the corridor.

Sandor eased open the door to the little bird's bedroom and sat at a table in the darkness.

She had fourteen summers behind her, fifteen soon enough. She was old enough to be a wife, by anyone's standards.

If he left her there and the city fell, she would be married off for sure. Raped first, perhaps, when those soldiers broke through, but _then_ married off.

If he left her there and the city did _not_ fall, she would marry a sadistic monster who liked to torment her. _  
_

But, he couldn't leave her - no. He would sooner lie on his back in the courtyard and wait for Joffrey to drive a sword through his chest for treason.

So, he should take her - he _must _take her or stay to die at her feet.

They should fly out of the gates and on to the horizon, and he would do the 'honorable' thing by finding her family and returning her to them.

But, it was just as dangerous there, wasn't it?

She wouldn't be safe.

Would Robb or Catelyn Stark allow him to stay close by - let him sleep at the foot of her bed like all faithful dogs did?

Not a fucking chance in hell.

What would happen to her when they gave him his reward in gold and sent him on his way?

She would be married off once more for political purposes - perhaps to someone colder and more violent than Joffrey - and she would forget that there was a Hound that had ever been at her side.

She would belong to someone else and Sandor would never see her again.

_He would never see his little bird again. _

It struck a sore point in him and he raged at it.

Fuck her family, fuck her status and fuck the Seven Kingdoms.

He would take her far, far away where no one cared about lions or wolves and he would make her a clean, little home to raise Clegane pups in.

Maybe, he wouldn't be as charming and handsome as the kind of man she had envisioned marrying, but he could swear on pain of death that he would never seek out another's flesh or be found missing when she needed him and that was more than all of her buggering knights and high lords could do.

He could make her happy. Sellswords earned decent pay, depending on how good they were, and Sandor was the best.

Doubt arose momentarily.

_And, what if she wants her mother? What if she wants to go to her brother? _

_Never mind_, he told himself. _Never mind, that. You know that she has the best chance at a happy, fucking future with you. She doesn't know. She can't know what going to her family means. _

There was a squeak in the hinge as the door opened and it was bolted shut by the little bird.

She had left the sept, then. That was good. He had expected that.

He waited for her breathing to steady before he made her aware of his presence.

"I'm going," he said simply.

She jumped a little, startled. He could see her eyes widen in the darkness as she realized who had spoken.

Sansa didn't ask him why he had left the battle or how. She was a smart girl.

Her question was just as simple.

"Where?"

He stood up and looked at her. She was such a frail, thin, shivering thing.

Sandor could not tell her what he meant to do; she might faint and that wasn't something that he was prepared to deal with at the moment.

"Someplace that isn't burning."

She was afraid as well. He could see it in the way she looked out the window at the tall, green fire where horrible shrieks could be heard.

"You won't get out," she stated plainly in a voice that shook. "You can't."

Sandor shook his head, his voice becoming more gentle.

"Nonsense, girl. I have the white cloak."

He touched her trembling hand and brought it to the pommel of his sword so that she could feel the reality of the weapon.

"And, this. This will ensure that I get out._" _

She stepped back as he released her. He noted that he had gotten blood on her small pinky and felt sorry for it.

"They won't notice that I've gone for a long while and they won't be able to sniff me out to bring me back when they do."

Sansa was a little calmer now and she stared up at him, not looking away for once.

"Then, why haven't you left already?" she whispered, still quivering.

This was the hard part.

She had to go with him willingly.

He would do whatever it took to get her out of that hellhole, but if she chose to be unreasonable then he couldn't take a screaming, sobbing girl, who looked too much like the King's betrothed, out of those gates unnoticed.

And, he couldn't bear to knock her unconscious.

No, he couldn't bear it.

"You could come too. I would keep you safe."

She blinked at him in what seemed like shock.

"Everyone's afraid of me. No one would hurt you or I'd kill them."

She should know that by now. The little bird had to know that it was the truth.

Sansa was quiet and then swallowed.

"You would...you would take me North? To my brother?"

_Lie, you fool! Lie! _

He could not.

"I will take you where it is safe."

It had turned into a lie anyways. Her eyes shone with hope and he could see that she had taken his words as some sort of an agreement.

Foolish girl.

His foolish, wonderful girl.

He snatched a cloak off of a chair and tied it around her neck with clumsy fingers.

"Come along then," he urged in his rasping tongue.

She started to follow him, but then hesitated and glanced around the bedroom.

"None of that," he chided. "We can't take any of that with us. You'll only need one pair of clothes on the road, girl. And, we won't have time to read those books of yours neither."

"We could sell some of the jewels. It could be useful later," she suggested.

He shook his head.

"Tip off our location to the lions or cost us our throats with bandits, more likely. Let it be. I've enough money, little bird."

Still, she lingered by the doorway and it made him nervous.

"For the last, bloody time, let's _go_."

He pulled the hood over her fiery hair and they ran down the hall. She kept close beside him.

Fortune favored Sandor and there was nobody to hinder them as they went to the stables. He saddled Stranger and pulled her up to sit in front of him.

They rode, hard and fast, through King's Landing, across the bridge and out of the gate. The guard hadn't even bothered to check them; Sandor had been so fiercely confident.

And, all he could think of as she trustingly rested against his armor and he held his hard-won treasure was that she was his, his, _gloriously his _and not a soul could tear her away from his arms ever again.

It was done and finished.

Sandor Clegane had his bride.

* * *

Author's Note: We'll have Sansa's pov next chapter, just so you know.


End file.
